


Dogma

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age of Potter Fest, Enemies, M/M, only warning would be descriptions of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 17:19:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15296334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: When Commander Draco Malfoy catches two high-ranking raiders responsible for the murders of innocent civilians, he didn't expect his world to be turned upside down. Written for the Age of Potter Fest.





	Dogma

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [AgeOfPotter](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/AgeOfPotter) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Fallout-like post apocalyptic future  
> The year is 2287. Protagonist A lives in a small settlement in the post-apocalyptic wasteland. Protagonist B is one of a group of raiders/bandits that has been wreaking havoc in settlements in the area. B has the opportunity to kill A during one raid, but something in their eyes stops them. B is drawn to this person and can't keep away, and it seems A might be similarly affected. So begins their forbidden romance.
> 
> ***Pairing up to author***
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling.

Settlement 9 was raided last night.

Once again, the Marauders leveled an entire compound. Where buildings once stood uniform and gray against the burnt orange landscape, there were ruins—charred husks that housed eighty settlers.

Whatever wasn’t strong enough to withstand the blasts had been reduced to ash, layers and layers of it on the ground. Though, soon, there won’t even be that—the winds had picked up once again, as it often did. By the end of the hour, the cinder was sure to be blown away, mixed with the red dust of the terrain.

“What do we do now, sir?” asked Blaise Zabini. He, along with the rest of Regiment 47, waited for the next command.

Draco Malfoy sighed. “Look for survivors,” he ordered, although he knew what they would find: a _bsolutely nothing_.

The Marauders were thorough. Computers, building equipment, food, medicine, clothing—if it wasn’t bolted to the ground, they took it.

The only thing they didn’t steal with them were the settlers.

On the first day of initiation into the D.E., every recruit was shown a footage of settlers caught in a Marauder’s crosshairs. The recording was grainy, but it was clear enough that no one could truly forget the gruesome sight: the Marauders threw a metallic ball in the middle of a crowd of settlers. It flashed a brilliant white—and twenty bodies exploded into twenty clouds of dust. The most amazing part of the footage was the silence—no one had the time to scream nor the opportunity to realize what was happening. People bloomed out of existence—a shower of dust.

Silence settled over the remains of the compound like a pall. Eighty bodies bustled at this place mere days ago when he came for the biweekly inspection; now, there were none to be found. Draco swallowed down bile as he walked through ash on the ground, trying to distract his mind from the reality that, at that moment, he was likely walking through their remains.

As his men fanned out to search behind the blackened and dilapidated walls of the main warehouse, Draco remained in the settlement’s square. It wasn’t as big as the one in Diagon—none of the outer communities had facilities that matched those of the main compound—but it suited the settlers just fine. During Draco’s last visit, a small festivity was thrown for one of the settlers—a young woman with clear, grey eyes and long, yellow hair—to celebrate her day of birth.

And now, she was dead—they all were, because of those bloody barbarians.

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His chest tingled—a subtle reminder that magic facilitated his lungs with extracting oxygen from the thin atmosphere. It was not an uncomfortable sensation but one that felt alien every time he stepped out of the controlled environments of the compounds and into the elements. The WAND on his wrist warmed his skin. He blew out a loud sigh and opened his eyes.

Explosions had strewn rubble across the compound, up to the storage sheds dotting the crest of Sojourner Hill. The sun grazed its sharp edges as it burned the orange sky with darker hues of red. His gaze swept across the back-lit façade of the hill.

A flicker of movement at one of the sheds caught his eye.

Draco blinked. As he trained his eyes onto the building on the horizon, no other movements could be discerned. Yet his instincts pulled him towards it—and Draco wasn’t made the youngest commander in D.E. history for nothing.

His feet carried him westward, powered by a strong hunch that he would find something valuable among these ruins, after all.

* * *

 

“Hold still!” With the wind dying down, a soft thud carried in the still air. It was followed by a sharp hiss. “For fuck’s sake,” said the same deep voice, caught between panic and exasperation.

He approached the shed, his footsteps light on the loose, pebbled ground. Draco distinguished another voice.

“It’s no use,” it mumbled, weak and dejected. “You—you have to get out of here—”

The deeper voice growled. “No bloody way I’m leaving you!”

“You have to!” the voice—breathless and distinctly feminine—urged. “I c-can’t Apparate in my condition, and a Portkey is—is out of—” the voice halted, replaced by shaky, labored breathing.

“Damn it!”

Draco snuck to the front of the shed. The front door hung ajar, letting a sliver of sunlight into the dark, windowless shed. Draco hid behind the door and peeked through a slice of space between the hinges.

Inside, a woman slumped on the ground, her left leg extended in front of her. With eyes squeezed shut, she took deep gulps of air. In the low light, her skin was a sickly gray, and as Draco’s eyes traveled from her face to her leg, he understood why she looked to be at Death’s door.

This shed stored the compound's fuel reserves, so Draco had thought the large splotch on her thigh was merely an accidental spill. But the stain—inky in the shadows—seeped into more of her clothing and spilled on the floor. Draco recognized it then: blood—a lot of it.

Kneeling beside her was a man whose profile was obscured by shadows. He hovered over, one hand on the woman’s back while the other examined the damage to her leg. He tore the cloth above the wound, exposing the injury and the surrounding, blood-drenched skin of her thigh. Long fingers traced the edges of the laceration, the WAND over his wrist glowing faintly in the dark.

“I can’t close off the wound,” he muttered. “The laceration is too deep.” He waved his hand over the gash one more time before he curled his hand into a fist and punched the metal floor, which was slick with the growing pool of her blood. He grunted in frustration.

“Just go, Harry,” she mumbled. Her eyes were glazed and lidded as she faced her companion. “You better go before those damned snakes make their way over here.”

Harry huffed, shaking his head as he cupped her cheek. The knuckles of his hand were smeared red. “Don’t be stupid, Hermione,” he said, tone hard and uncompromising. “I’m going to get you out of here.” He got up and walked deeper into the shadows.

As he scrutinized the woman on the ground, Draco realized the auspicious opportunity that had fallen on his lap. The man had called his wounded companion, ‘Hermione’—a strange and uncommon name. Draco had heard of only one ‘Hermione,’ and she was quite famous among the other D.E.’s—well, _infamous_ , to be more accurate. She was one of the three leaders of the Marauders and a trusted lieutenant in Dumbledore’s Order.

Excitement fluttered in Draco’s chest as he shifted his gaze to the shadow rummaging through the shelves, likely hoping to find a medkit his Marauders had left behind. If that was Hermione Granger bleeding out on the ground, then her companion was not just any ‘Harry’—he was _Harry_ -fucking- _Potter,_ another leader of the Marauders and rumored to take over the Order once Albus Dumbledore kicked the bucket.

Harry moved further down the line of shelves and out of Draco’s limited view. Desperate to keep the man in his sight, Draco shifted his position. His toe scraped the door with the slightest nudge, but the rusted hinges produced a shrill squeak.

The rustling inside the shed immediately stopped.

“Bugger,” Draco muttered.

He jumped to the other side of the door, his WAND arm extended in front of him. He heard the discharge of a hex; it was a weak one, however, and Draco neatly stepped out of its path.

On the ground, Hermione sagged forward, the effort of that one spell using up the reserves of her energy. The arm she had aimed at his chest fell to the ground, her WAND hitting the metal with a dull thud.

“So quick to fire,” Draco sneered. He took two steps into the shed. “What if I were an ally?”

“I know a snake when I see one,” she hissed. Hermione groaned as she tried to raise her arm once again, only lifting it a few inches before giving way.

Draco aimed his WAND at her, palm out and fingers extended. A screen of light popped up in the space between them. From the shadows, Harry Potter stepped forward, and Draco got a better glimpse of his features—pitch-black hair, which fell in wild waves to his shoulders, and the angry slash of the famous scar on his forehead.

Draco shifted his WAND from the helpless woman to the more immediate threat. He pointed at Harry’s head, waiting for the _Protego_ charm to fade away, eager to blast a spell between the bastard’s eyes— _emerald eyes_ , which glowed in the blue-white light of the magical shield.

Yet, even as the magic and its light faded away, and the shadows crawled out of the corners once more, the intensity of those green eyes never wavered. Draco realized that it wasn’t any outside source of light that made Potter’s eyes glow; he had an inner luminescence, a manifestation of his powerful magic.

A shiver ran up Draco’s spine. He stared into those eyes, unable to pull away, until they fluttered down to Draco’s chest, where the insignia of his rank was pinned.

“That’s right, Potter,” he said, finding his voice after being released from Potter’s enthralling gaze. “You’re dealing with a Commander. One word from me, and I could have my entire regiment bearing down on this little shed.”

At his words, Hermione jerked as if she was shot with a jolt of electricity. She twisted at her waist and yelled, “Harry! _Go_!”

“Not a chance!” Harry roared, though his eyes never left Draco.

Hermione screamed, the sound reverberating in the small space. She pulled a small item from the pocket of her vest and threw it at her comrade.

Harry’s reflex must have kicked in, as his hand shot out and grabbed the object out of the air. It was only when he wrapped his fingers around it that a sense of recognition seeped into his eyes. He tore his gaze away from Draco, glancing at the coin in his hand before his eyes landed on Hermione, face contorted with horror and betrayal.

Then, with a burst of magic, he was gone.

“Portkey,” Draco grunted. He sauntered over to his captive, who was growing ever-paler as she wilted. “And I’m willing to bet that was the only one on you,” he said, kneeling so they were at eye level. He shook his head slowly. “Not very smart. And, here I thought I captured the great Hermione Grange—”

With a great heaving sigh, she swooned, landing on the floor with a clatter.

Draco blew out a sharp breath—he hated being interrupted mid-gloat. He fanned his fingers out in front of him, and the visage of Blaise Zabini floated inches from his WAND.

“Come to my location,” Draco barked. The muscles of his lips tugged into a smug grin. “I caught us a little bandit.” 

* * *

 

“They’ve got her, Albus!” Harry yelled as he stomped into the command center. The congregation at the head of the table started at his entrance. He marched past them, heading straight for their small armory. “They’ve got Hermione! We’ve got to go back and get her before they take her to Diagon!”

He tugged on the heavy door and stepped inside the tiny room, the rusted shelved holding their precious, limited weaponry. He conjured a pack and stuffed it with anything within arms’ reach.

A few moments passed before he realized he was the only one scrambling. He poked his head out; everyone remained clumped by the table, avoiding his gaze.

The only person who looked him square in the eye was Albus Dumbledore. “Harry,” he said in a soft voice.

It rankled Harry. “Don’t you _dare_ , Albus,” he hissed. “They’ve got Hermione.” He rushed out of the room, slinging his half-filled pack over his shoulder. “We’ve raided settlements for far less.”

Albus tilted his head in a show of sympathy. “Those settlements were only lightly guarded,” he implored. “There’s at least a full regiment there now, perhaps even a fleet. We don’t have enough men—”

“We don’t need an entire army!” Harry bellowed. “ _I’ll_ go. I just need two or three other people to cover me. Who’s willing to go with me?” His request hung in the air, met only with silence.

“I’ll go,” called a familiar voice at the door.

Relief relaxed the taut muscles of Harry’s shoulders.

Ron Weasley stood under the threshold, arms crossed and eyes glaring at the cowards in the room. “Of course I’ll go, Harry,” he said. “And I’m sure the rest of the Marauders come with us.”

Harry gave him a sharp nod. He filed down the length of the room to the only exit.

Behind him, Albus pleaded, “My boy, you _must_ reconsider.”

He halted in his tracks and turned to his graying mentor, fixing him with a menacing stare. “You don’t have the right to tell me to leave her behind,” he spit venomously. “The Order may be yours to command, Albus, but the Marauders are _mine_. So, you can stay here in the safety of this room and plot away, but my men and I are going.”

Without waiting for a response, he stomped out of the room with Ron at his shoulder.

When they were out of earshot, Ron muttered, “Do you think she’ll still be there?”

He shook his head, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I don’t know.”

* * *

 

The rhythmic pounding of boots on the ground jarred her back to reality.

Her eyelids were heavy, and it was another minute before she had gathered enough strength to force them open. White light from the sconces diffused the narrow hallway. Hermione blinked against the harsh assault to her eyesight.

As her vision adjusted to the foreign surroundings, she pulled her arm to her side, flexing her wrist in the space under her hip and finding nothing but air—someone had put a _Wingardium Leviosa_ on her.

She nudged her head back. An imposing figure marched just inches from the crown of her head, magically dragging her in his wake. From the glimpse of platinum blond, she knew it was the same bastard that caught them in the shed.

They must have run out of hallway, because they came to a sudden stop. The man turned around and glanced at her with narrowed eyes. A cold smile formed on his lips.

“Ah, good. You’re awake,” he said. He leaned down and whispered close to her ear, “Though, in a minute, you’re going to _really_ regret it.”

She pressed her lips together, swallowing down the panic that bubbled at his callous words. Her eyes darted around, her view limited by the high walls of the corridor. Ahead, a wide steel door closed off their path. Her captor strolled to the monitor on the wall. With a wave of his WAND, they were admitted entrance.

The D.E. bastard marched into the spacious, circular room. Hermione floated in after him, and she got a glimpse of the domed ceiling before she felt the magic fall out from under her like a trapdoor. She fell to the ground, banging her head and elbows on the cold metal floor.

Cloaked figures encircled her, their collars emblazoned with the letters ‘D.E.,’ which stood for Directive Enforcer—law officers for Diagon. The Order called them something else, however, a name that better reflected their true colors.

_Death Eaters_.

Hermione scrambled to her feet. She may have been captured, but she would be damned if she was caught on her knees in front of any Death Eater scum.

As Hermione found her balance, careful to keep as much weight off her injured leg as possible, the line of Death Eaters broke. A striking figure stepped inside the circle, his shiny, black boots clicking on the metal floor. His dark hair was cut close at the sides, but longer locks fell across his forehead, framing his eyes.

Her breath caught in her chest. While the information on the younger batch of Death Eaters was slim, the Order had plenty of intel on Tom Marvolo Riddle. Taking over command of Diagon from Grindelwald at a young age, Riddle’s name incited a hushed fear among the residents of Hogwarts. A photo of him was tacked on a board inside their command center; every time she looked at it, she would often wonder if those blue eyes were as icy and cold in real life as they seemed on paper.

Gazing into them now, she couldn’t have been more wrong. They were captivating—bright and blue, like the tip of the inner cone of a torch fire, the hottest point of the blaze. She bit down on her lip, fighting the instinct to run.

Riddles eyes shifted to the blond man who stood somewhere behind her; she felt his gaze leave her, and it was almost like a physical weight off her chest. She released her breath in a quiet, controlled sigh.

“Well done, Draco,” Riddle said. He took another step toward Hermione. She locked her legs, suppressing the urge to take a step back.

With his hands clasped behind him, Riddle prowled around her, a predator sizing up its prey. She held her chin up, eyes forward, while she forced deep, even breaths into her lungs to keep from hyperventilating.

“Miss Granger,” he rumbled as he made his way around to face her. He ducked his head down, and she couldn’t resist the pull of his gaze. “Welcome to Diagon.” A smile crept on his features. “I’ve heard you’re quite the warrior, so I won’t insult you by assuming that I can strong-arm, beat, or otherwise physically intimidate you into giving information about the Order.” His dark eyebrow twitched. “Unless you’re open to making a deal?”

A growl escaped from the back of her throat.

Riddle’s smile grew broader. “I didn’t think so.” He motioned with his fingers, and Death Eaters flanked her, grabbing her arms. “I think I’ll just save everyone’s time and skip ahead to the starvation and sensory deprivation. I’m sure a few days in the Dungeon will make you more agreeable to working with me.”

He pivoted on his heels and marched out of the room; the Death Eaters scrambled out of his way and gave him a deferential bow as he passed.

The grip on her elbows tightened, and she was yanked in the opposite direction. 

* * *

 

Stars glittered in the sky as they did every night—as long there were no dust storms. Harry leaned over the railing of the balcony, staring into the distance. Phobos and Deimos hung low in the sky, two silver orbs among the sea of stars.

The muscles in his chest tightened. Their silver glow reminded him of—

“All right, Harry?” Ron asked as he clapped Harry on the shoulder. He stepped up next to Harry, planting his elbows on the railing and gazing down the cliffside, a natural barrier that protected Hogwarts from a siege. “Stop beating yourself up. We got there as soon as we could. Not your fault those bloody snakes could slither out faster than we thought.”

Harry shook his head, mostly to rid himself of the lingering image of a pair of riveting, silver eyes. He glanced at his friend; guilt dropped into the pit of his stomach. “How are you doing?” he asked, infusing an unspoken apology in his tone. “This must be harder on you.”

The corners of Ron’s lips twisted up in a bitter smile. “No more than it is on you,” he muttered.

“Hermione’s my best friend,” Harry said, “but she’s—”

“ _Also_ my best friend,” Ron interjected. “She made it quite clear to me before she—she—” he stepped back and gripped the railing, the muscles of his arms bunching as he tightened his hold.

Harry placed a comforting hand on Ron’s shoulder, and they stood on the balcony in silence, staring at the stars. After a few minutes, he felt the tension leave Ron’s shoulder.

“I meant to tell you when I came out here,” Ron said, turning to face Harry. A grim determination fell over his features. “I found someone who might be able to help us get her back.” 

* * *

 

She hissed as the cell door opened, throwing both arms up to shield her sensitive eyes from the piercing light.

The clatter of the door and the stomping of feet assaulted her ears, and she curled into a ball to keep her overloaded nerves from wracking her body.

The footsteps halted, and the intruder kneeled in front of her. She lifted her head, blinking rapidly to clear her vision.

She was arrested by Riddle’s penetrating stare.

* * *

 

She couldn’t recall how she got there. One minute, she was caught in Tom Riddle’s gaze, and the next, she was sitting in front of a banquet.

A cacophony of scents barraged her—the earthy notes of thyme and mustard on roasted vegetables, the tang of vinegar dressing on the bright, leafy greens, and the savory aroma of chicken, skewered and slowly cooked over a steady flame.

If she wasn’t so fucking dehydrated, she would have cried.

But her body couldn’t afford to waste any water on tears, nor a drop to her salivary glands. Her tongue remained as dry as sandpaper despite the heady stimulation from the food. Instead, her gaze shifted to the tall glass of ice water beside her gleaming plate.

“Anything strike your fancy?” asked Tom Riddle, who sat across the long table.

She nearly jumped out of her seat, startled out of her reverie.

He indicated to the glass of water, beads of condensation lazily trailing down the side of the clear glass. “You should take a drink,” he said, “but be careful not to take in too much at once. You won’t be able to handle it after being without water for so long.”

She clutched her fingers in her lap to keep from reaching for the enticing drink. “And who’s fault is that?” she croaked.

Riddle smiled, leaning back in his chair. He waved a hand over the display. “Drink. Eat. There’s something I’d like to show you, and I don’t want you passing out before we’re done.”

Hermione frowned, her heart fluttering at the nefarious undertone of his words.

He must have read her expression—his smile grew broader, showcasing straight, white teeth. He leaned forward, extending his arms out, palms facing up in a sign of supplication. “Don’t worry, Miss Granger—May I call you Hermione?—Don’t worry, Hermione. I promise I haven’t poisoned anything on the table, and I won’t consider you partaking of any food or drink as a form of surrender.”

She kept her eyes on his face as, slowly, she brought her hands up to the table. She curled her fingers around the glass, her tongue involuntarily darting to her bottom lip in anticipation. Her hands shook as she brought the cool glass to her lips. Hermione watched for any change in his expression—a look of triumph, a glimmer of victory that she had fallen for his trap—but found none. When she tipped the container back, she almost sobbed with relief as fluid flooded her mouth and flowed down her throat.

“Careful,” he murmured.

Hermione pulled the glass away from her mouth, and water dribbled down her chin. She brought her arm up to wipe it away as she set the glass down on the wooden surface. Then, she reached across the table to the basket of warm bread. 

* * *

 

“Why do you attack our settlements, Miss Granger?” Riddle asked.

They walked side-by-side along the lonely corridor. Riddle had refused his guards when they left the dining room. Hermione didn’t have the strength to be offended that he thought she posed such little threat of violence or escape. They inched down the hallway for _her_ benefit—she, walking with a slight limp due to her still-healing leg, and he, shortening his strides to keep apace.

“Because you’re a monster,” she answered acerbically. “You lock people up in your so-called ‘settlements,’ banning them from using WANDs—banning them from the use of _any_ magic!” She felt the familiar burst of anger as she thought about the mistreatment under Riddle’s command. “Don’t you know how dehumanizing it is to keep a witch or a wizard from harnessing their magic? And you keep them penned in their settlements, letting them out only when you need manual labor.” She halted her steps and fixed him with a glare. “They’re nothing more than—than _possessions_ to you. Take them out when you have need of them, then tuck them away when you don’t!”

Riddle sighed, placing his hands behind his back and narrowing his eyes. “Whatever I do,” he said in a pedantic tone, “whatever laws I have enacted, it was all for the good of this dwindling society.” He stepped towards her, and she raised her chin to meet his gaze, unwavering. “WANDs are banned for the safety of everyone in the community. Supplies are limited, and the temptation to use magic to steal from others poses too great of a threat.”

“It’s barbaric!” she cried.

“It’s _necessary_!” His raised voice echoing down the hallway. He let out a sharp breath through his nose and marched down the corridor. “Come,” he ordered.

With no other choice, she trailed behind him. They stopped at the door at the end of the corridor; when it slid open, the scenery caught her by surprise.

They stepped into a great room lined with tables and benches. At the other end of the hall, five long tables held trays of warm, appetizing food.

Hermione gaped at the tableau before her, oscillating between amazement and alarm.

Despite the large number of people inside the hall, mealtime was a somber procession. An orderly line flanked either side of the banquet tables as people ladled portions of meats and vegetables on their plates. Those who had already finished eating picked their trays up from the table and headed to the sinks to clean after themselves—even the young children.

No one talked; or, if they did, it was done in hushed tones. Not a smile nor a laugh—nor _any_ emotion could be read on their faces as they went about their routine in robotic fashion.

“This is—” she faltered, for the first time in her life unable to find the right word to say. “They look so—so _lifeless_.” She turned her head, pinning Riddle down with a sharp glare as bodies processed around them.

“They’re content,” Riddle pronounced, his eyes burrowing into hers. “They’re fed. They’re clothed. They’re sheltered. They’re given duties so their minds and hands stay active. I give them everything they could ever need; they want for nothing.” He tilted his head and pointed an accusing finger at her. “Can you say the same thing about _your_ people?”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort but quickly pressed her lips shut. As the Order grew, Hogwarts could barely sustain them. Raids on the settlements and storage facilities supplemented the diminishing provisions, but those expeditions were few and far between.

There was never _quite_ enough to go around—not shelter, not clothing, and certainly not food.

But they did have WANDs; those, they made sure _everyone_ got. The memory of countless people laying their hands on a WAND and seeing life flood back into their eyes bolstered her resolve.

“Our people aren’t content,” she said with conviction. “They’re _happy_. They may be starved and tired, but they’re happy.” She stared at him, unblinking—challenging.

With a growl, he grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the room. 

* * *

 

Draco paused mid-stride. His ears picked up a soft pattering of feet—an innocuous sound at any other time—but here, at the perimeter of Diagon in the dead of night, it could spell disaster. He readied his WAND hand as he strained for other sounds.

A flurry of whispers—the soft rustle of clothing—and Draco turned and ran along the fence, searching for the source.

He happened upon it in the form of Harry Potter, who was slipping through a newly-torn hole in the perimeter fence.

“You Marauders really are idiots,” Draco said as he pointed his WAND hand at the intruder. “Settlements at the outskirts are one thing, but _please_ don’t tell me you’re here to raid _Diagon_.”

With his hands up in the air, Harry stretched out in his full height. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry said. Despite his helpless position, his lips tilted up in a lopsided grin. “I wouldn’t waste my energy on Diagon. Not when your other settlements are such easy pickings.”

Harry’s nonchalance at the thought of destruction—and the high death toll at the Marauder’s wake—boiled Draco’s blood. He thrust his palm out and aimed for Harry’s heart. “You think it’s funny, Potter?” he asked, appalled. “Is it fun for you to kill defenseless people by the dozens? What is it—a _sport_ for you?”

Harry’s eyebrows knit together. “What the hell are you talking about—erm—”

“Malfoy,” he provided. His WAND nearly vibrated with energy. “Draco Malfoy.” His lips pulled back in a sneer. “You should know my name, as I’m about to kill you.”

The grin on Harry’s face grew. “First of all— _Malfoy_ —I’ve never killed a settler in my life.”

Draco scoffed. “Don’t bloody lie to me. That’s what you Marauders are known for—raiding compounds, stealing our already limited supplies, and killing anyone that gets in your way!”

Harry shook his head. “That’s not true,” he said, and then winced. “At least, not that last part.”

His WAND hand shook. “Quit lying!” he shouted. “You’re _murderers_ , all of you!”

“It’s really not true,” a voice lilted in the dark. Within the space of a blink, a young woman with long locks of yellow hair and large, grey eyes stepped out from the hole in the perimeter fence.

“You,” Draco whispered. He stumbled backwards, his eyes riveted to her pale face. “You’re—you’re—”

“Back!” she said, a wide smile brightening her expression. “Well, not permanently. Just long enough to get Hermione Granger out of the Dungeon.” She held her right arm up to her face, a WAND reflecting the shine of the silver moons. “And, look! I’ve finally got my own Wrist Anchoring Device! I can do magic now, just like you,” she said proudly, “although I don’t quite have a handle on it yet.”

“You’ll get there, Luna,” said another voice as a redheaded man crawled out of the hole.

Draco lowered his WAND hand and sighed in irritation—wasn’t Diagon meant to be an impenetrable fortress? How were its defenses breached by a ginger idiot, an obviously daft girl, and a—a—

As he stared into Harry’s eyes, he was once again drawn to its green depths. Harry stared back at him, his lips slightly parted in awe.

The Ginger Idiot cleared his throat. “Erm—Harry?” he said, his voice filled with uncertainty. “Should we—should we get a move on?”

With a wave, Luna turned and headed towards the main building, her steps bouncing as she grabbed Ginger Idiot’s hand. “Come on,” she said, pulling on his arm. “I know how to get to the Dungeon from here!”

The flustered man stumbled after her. “Uh, come on, Harry,” he said, sparing a hesitant glance in Draco’s direction before running to keep pace with the girl.

Harry stared at Draco a moment longer before turning on his heels. He took three steps before Draco found his voice again.

“’Second of all,’” Draco called after him. Harry froze. “You said ‘First of all,’” Draco continued. “Which means there’s a ‘second of all.’” He took three steps forward, narrowing the distance between them.

“Second of all—” Harry glanced back at him with a smug smile. “—I _know_ you won’t kill me.”

Draco huffed. “Why are you so sure about that?”

His lopsided grin formed widened. “Because if you truly wanted to kill me, you would have done it at the shed.” He paused, letting the words settle between them, before turning around and running after his friends.

Draco was petrified to his spot. 

* * *

 

When the cell doors banged open, she was more prepared for the battering to her senses. She was even ready to meet Tom Riddle’s arresting gaze.

What she wasn’t prepared for were arms pulling her up and holding her in a tight embrace.

“ _Thank Merlin_!” Harry whispered in her ear. 

* * *

 

Draco remained rooted at his spot, staring numbly at the space that had been occupied by Harry Potter. He felt shaken, not just from his encounter with the Marauder, but from his blonde companion—the girl from Settlement 9, the one whose Birth Day celebration was still fresh in his memory.

The girl who was supposed to be ashes in the wind—at least, according to everything he knew about the Marauders. Everything that he expected; everything he’d been trained to think. Draco dedicated his entire career in the D.E. to stopping the horror the Marauders left in their wake.

Now, as he stood at the perimeter of Diagon, he felt the foundations of his dogma begin to crumble from under him.

“You’re still here?”

Draco blinked. Harry Potter stood several feet in front of him. To the side, bodies scurried through the perimeter hole, and he caught a glimpse of a profusion of brown curls as it disappeared into the night.

“You got her out,” Draco whispered.

Harry nodded. He turned and headed to the hole; Draco followed close behind.

“Potter—”

With one foot already on the other side of the fence, Harry turned his head to gaze at him. “You can do it, too, you know,” he said. “Get out. You don’t have to stay here.”

Draco gaped. He fought the urge to look back at the large fortress of Diagon—afraid that if he took his eyes off Harry, he would disappear.

Perhaps reading the conflict on his face, Harry held out a hand. “Come with us, Malfoy,” he said. “And see for yourself that we’re not the monsters you think we are.”

Draco stared at the extended hand.

“Malfoy,” Harry urged.

He lifted his eyes and met Harry’s mesmerizing gaze.

Draco reached out and grasped the Marauder’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
